


Organized Lightning

by Lauren (notalwaysweak)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Bechdel Test Pass, Dysphoria, Electricity, F/F, Interspecies Sex, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Scars, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Violence References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 05:47:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12624546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notalwaysweak/pseuds/Lauren
Summary: The red dragon Thordak has been sealed away in the Fire Plane by a team of spellcasters and others. Lady Kima of Vord and Lady Allura Vysoren have returned to the City of Emon heroes, and Sovereign Uriel Tal'Dorei has invited them to join the Council of Emon—provided that the existing Council members agree. Most of them are readily amenable, but Lady Kima's not sure she's made the best impression on Guardian Tofor Brotoras, her fellow Paladin of Bahamut. She sets out to resolve this in her own way.





	Organized Lightning

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt '[anyone/any dragonborn](https://criticalkink.dreamwidth.org/700.html?thread=288444#cmt288444)' over on the kmeme. I've been working this on and off since July, wanting to get it right, and I think I finally did.
> 
> _Critical Role_ characters do not belong to me, I am just borrowing them.
> 
> "Electricity is really just organized lightning." -- George Carlin
> 
> * * *

Guardian Tofor Brotoras, member of the Council of Emon, the city’s Master of Defence, is looking down her snout at the two of them.

At least that’s what Kima thinks the first time that they formally meet. She and Allie have been invited to join the Council of Emon, and they’re meeting the council members one by one to—to—Kima can only think of it as an audition. The invitation is already on the table, only Uriel can revoke it, and yet she senses that if the other council members don’t like them then the deal will be off.

Of the council members, Kima’s particularly interested in Guardian Brotoras as a fellow paladin of Bahamut. But it’s just too hard to _read_ her. She’s gruff, short with her words, thawing only somewhat under the warmth of Allura’s charm. It doesn’t help that her face is—well, yes, inhuman. Oh, she has two eyes and a mouth, but a snout instead of a nose, and the protrusions on the sides of her head could be ears or horns or even a skull frill.

Kima just hopes that her staring won’t be taken the wrong way.

Still, Guardian Brotoras doesn’t seem to actively _dislike_ either of them. She listens to their stories, her patience holding even when Kima begins to stammer and lose her words in the face of that steady storm-blue gaze.

The afternoon winds down to an awkward close when Guardian Brotoras runs out of tea to offer them. It’s the first time that she’s appeared anything other than completely unruffled. Kima suspects that she could be standing on the city wall in a hail of arrows and still appear perfectly at ease.

Allura closes the meeting with a few carefully chosen words and all but shovels Kima out of the Guardian’s home.

“What were you _doing_ , you idiot?” she whispers as soon as they’re well out on the street, hustling Kima toward the Ivory Tower.

“What?”

“You were _staring_ at her. I thought you were going to start _drooling_.”

Kima blinks and realizes what Allie’s getting at. “I wasn’t _looking_ ,” she protests. “I was just—”

“You _were_ looking,” Allura says. “Darling, you do remember that looking is perfectly all right, don’t you?”

Kima dips her gaze to the cobblestones that Allura’s hauling her over. “I never want to take you for granted.”

Allura stops. Kima almost falls over her foot. Elegance and poise are not her forte. But then Allie’s arms are around her, Allie’s down on one knee holding her, and stability is less of an issue.

“Do you really think I would _let_ you take me for granted?” Allura says fiercely, and kisses her. Kima gives up on trying to figure out how to say that she really _was_ just trying to figure out of Guardian Brotoras’s head-things were ears or horns and just returns the kiss with interest.

Besides, she’d be lying.

The kiss eventually has to end, as public displays of affection in the middle of the Cloudtop District are not particularly ladylike (not that Kima gives a rat’s ass about being ladylike). More importantly than that, though, Guardian Brotoras was the last of their “interviews”. It’s time to settle in at home and do a debrief.

* * *

 

“If Uriel trusts us well enough to ask us to join the council, I should think they’d all have had some input to begin with,” Allura muses.

“Mmmm.” Kima considers the pauldron she’s got across her lap and dips the rag into the pot of polish, rubbing at a rust spot. The weather has no consideration whatsoever for the cost of plate armor.

“The Lady Farida of Pelor seemed well enough disposed toward us, as did General Yeskas.” Allura winks at Kima. “If the Guardian is as cool toward us as you seem to think she is, then the General might be able to sway her. He showed a good deal of interest in our abilities.”

“He showed a good deal of interest in your cleavage,” Kima says bluntly.

“He’s allowed to look.”

“He’s not allowed to look like he wants to take a bite out of you,” Kima mutters, spitting on the pauldron and scrubbing venomously.

Allura ignores this with aplomb and goes on. “Lord Daxio certainly seemed keen on hearing more about the potential for further contacts across the land, although there’s only so much I can hear about spices before I want to borrow your hammer—”

“—maul—”

“—and start smashing things.” She takes a sip of tea, their high tea with Guardian Brotoras not having diminished her thirst for the stuff. Kima looks at Allura’s extended little finger, the daintiness of the teacup, then looks down at her own hands, grubby with metal polish. She’s down to only her gambeson and woolen britches; Allie’s still got up in one of her going-out dresses, buttercup yellow silk that, with her golden hair, turns her into a fine-woven treasure.

They fit so _well_ together.

“You got on well enough with Seeker Asum, I don’t think we’ve anything to worry about there—”

“Allie?” Kima interrupts.

“Yes?” Allura looks across the table at her, and Kima knows the mischievous light in her eyes.

“I think it might be best if I speak to Guardian Brotoras again. Alone, this time. I’m afraid I might not have given her the best possible impression of me.”

Allura throws her head back and laughs her irrepressible, rich laugh. “Darling, you made it twenty whole minutes! I’m so impressed.”

Kima pulls a grumpy face and pushes the pauldron off her lap to clatter on the floor, before disdaining going around the table in favor of clambering onto it. Allura stands up and so they’re face to face when Kima reaches her.

“You do know she was looking right back at you, don’t you?”

“Allie?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Shut up.”

* * *

 

After a delightful interlude involving Allura removing Kima’s gambeson and britches, Kima removing Allura’s pretty dress, and then both of them removing each other’s sense of ladylike propriety until the sounds of their pleasure echo off the walls, they rest in Allura’s big bed. Allura has her arm around Kima and her hand is warm against Kima’s cheek, thumb absently stroking the scar that nearly took Kima’s eye.

“I suppose the best way to go about this would be to write her a letter,” Allura says.

Kima, half drowsing, jerks all the way awake. “A what? Allie! Do you mean some sort of—of _permit_?”

“I actually meant that she might be busy and you could suggest three or four options for meeting times,” Allura says, “but now that I come to think of it...”

“Allura Vysoren, you are absolutely not writing a letter to a member of the council to give her permission to have sex with me!”

Allura just grins.

“I can’t believe you even think that would be a good idea.”

“I wasn’t the one who said it, dearest. You just let your imagination run free.” Allura kisses the tip of Kima’s nose. “As you are prone to doing.”

“I may occasionally overreact.”

“The first time I saw you kill something, it was a phase spider that you walloped so hard I thought you’d hit it into another plane of existence.”

“It was about to bite Dohla.”

“The ogre’s face you pulped?”

“Horrible breath.”

“So why did _I_ get in trouble for disintegrating an owlbear?”

Kima shrugs. “The feathers were pretty.”

“Oh, of course. I didn’t think of ‘pretty’ as one of your priorities back then.”

“I was chasing after _you_ back then,” Kima points out. “I know you know you’re pretty.”

“I didn’t know you were chasing after me at the time.”

They both fall silent then, because the memory of when Allura _did_ realize Kima was in love with her is a little more recent and a lot more painful. After Thordak was sealed away. After they’d lost Dohla, and Sirus, and Ghenn. After they’d lost members of the Arcana Pansophical, who Kima didn’t really know but knows that Allura still feels personally responsible for.

All they can really do now is move forward, and part of that involves deciding whether or not to join the council. Allura’s already reeled off the names of those councillors who seem well-disposed toward them. In fact, Guardian Brotoras is the only one that Kima is still uncertain about.

“You need to at least try talking to her again before you judge her too harshly,” Allura says, and of course she’s right.

But Kima doesn’t need to send a letter (or, gods forbid, some sort of sexual invitation) in the end. In the end it’s a lot easier to get hold of the Guardian than she’d thought.

* * *

 

The Temple of Bahamut in Emon is less ostentatious than common folk expect for a temple to a dragon deity, especially one known as the Platinum Dragon. It’s still a sizeable building, and Kima has to ascend the stairs with care; like so many other things in the world, they are made for human-sized beings.

She rubs the platinum storm cloud set into the left-hand side of the arched entrance, reaching up a little to brush her fingertips over the spot that’s probably been worn shiny mostly by her own efforts; the humans probably don’t look down so far, except whichever novice has been assigned to do the dusting.

“For good, for luck,” she murmurs before padding into the main hall of the temple.

There are those who follow Bahamut who never set aside their armor, even when they’re not out in the world. For her own part, Kima’s glad of a chance to have the heavy plate off and feel the ground under her bare feet.

(Allura teases her for the latter, admonishing her for being a stereotypical halfling. Kima usually responds with as filthy a quip as she can manage about having a hearty appetite.)

She’s still got a dagger at her belt, though, where she can draw it quickly through a slit in the side of her tunic. Said belt has a conveniently located pouch, so that if a ranged attack is required she can yank it free and use it as a sling. Thanks to Allura’s magic, the pouch holds twenty good solid stone bullets and yet weighs next to nothing.

Kima’s not really thinking of battle in a place like this, though. Her faith simply does not permit the idea of violence within a place of worship. Maybe in a temple to Kord, but not here.

The main hall is a place of simple things: kneeling cushions, a set of padded benches currently pulled into a semicircle, and a table where bowls of apples and bread and jugs of water are set out. A place for Bahamut’s faithful to rest after a journey before setting out on another. Kima takes an apple, pulls a cushion close to the altar, and sits cross-legged.

The altar is the one point of opulence in the temple, and even then it’s elegant rather than ostentatious. There’s a place for a cleric to offer blessings, but Kima knows that the real blessings are done either while sitting in a group on the benches, recounting tales of great deeds, or in the smaller side rooms, where healing and recuperation may be found.

She munches her apple, looking up at the reredos behind the altar. Bahamut, looking down on Exandria with His benevolent gaze, but a chill lightning bolt extending from one front claw and the scales of justice in the other a reminder that goodness must be tested and tried time and again to prove its worth.

In one corner of the vast image is Tiamat, fleeing her brother, glancing behind herself with fear and anger.

Kima uncrosses her legs and draws her knees to her chest. She suddenly feels smaller than usual, and cold despite the braziers that line the walls for both heat and light. Goosebumps break out on her bare forearms, and the remains of the apple fall from her shaking hand.

_Lord of the North Wind_ , she says in her head. And then, because nobody else is here and they wouldn’t care even if they were, “Lord of the North Wind. What would you have of me?”

Because she can feel that this chill touch is not an accolade on her work with the others in sealing Thordak away. This is a call to arms for some other quest. Some other force of evil in the world that Bahamut wants her to go out and conquer.

And oh gods she is so tired. So tired.

There is no answer in words. There never is. Only a feeling.

“We’ve only been back eight days,” Kima whispers, looking up at the unmoving face of her Lord behind the altar. “We’re still in mourning. Dohla, Ghenn, Sirus. All the others. I—we need more time. We _deserve_ more time.”

The feeling grows inside her, and Kima lowers her forehead to her knees, letting it fill her, letting the message come through.

It is so easy and so selfish to beg for more time with Allura when she has greater things to achieve. Hideous to think that anything could be greater than the love they’ve discovered, but Kima—

Kima does not want the light of her faith to go out.

When she lifts her head her cheeks are streaked with tears, but her eyes are clear.

“All right. I’ll do it.”

“Do what?” a voice behind her inquires.

Kima is on her feet with the dagger out before she registers who is standing there. Or rather, as Guardian Brotoras is twice Kima’s height and then some, looming there.

“Oh,” she says, feeling a little stupid. “I didn’t know you were there.”

“Obviously,” Brotoras says, and while her reptilian features don’t show emotion in the ways that Kima’s used to recognizing, her tone is very clearly dry. “Would you mind putting that dagger away? I’m fond of my calves.”

“I can see why,” Kima says without thinking. The Guardian’s legs are perhaps the most humanoid part of her, at least what Kima can see of them; good solid calves, thick ankles, and clawed feet.

(Maybe _humanoid_ is a strong word. At least from the ankles down.)

They contrast oddly with the knee-length dress that Brotoras is wearing, not because the blue scales don’t go with the cloudy gray cloth (they do, actually, pair quite nicely), but because she never really pictured any dragonborn wearing something so, well, _feminine_.

This time the Guardian most definitely looks amused. “I didn’t know you were looking.”

“Looking’s free.” Kima wonders whether the shivering has knocked loose some essential connection between her brain and her mouth, but Brotoras outright laughs this time.

“I think you and I should go and have a proper lunch—” she bends and picks up Kima’s forgotten apple with one hand, and takes Kima’s hand with the other “—and ideally it should be in the sun.”

“Am I really that cold?” Kima asks, letting the Guardian help her to her feet.

She thinks she’s getting the hang of Brotoras’s facial expressions, because there’s an evident slyness in her eyes and voice. “Not especially. I just like to be good and warm.”

“You picked the wrong deity for that. Our Lord isn’t exactly known for his warmth.”

“I’ll just have to find an alternative, then.”

The speculative way that she looks down at Kima makes Kima wish that maybe she had brought a letter of permission from Allura, after all.

Kima touches the storm cloud again on the way out, and hears the click of the Guardian’s claws as she does the same.

* * *

 

Abadar’s Promenade is not lacking in food carts and street hawkers, and it’s not long before Kima is settled at a table across from the Guardian. The table is big for her, small for Brotoras, and they exchange a glance of resignation across it before lifting their mugs. Kima has tea, hot and sweet; the Guardian has black coffee with an odd thickness to it that looks all wrong when she stirs it, but is apparently exactly what she ordered.

They have a variety of small pastries on a plate between them, and _of course_ they both reach for the same one at the same time. Kima feels a spark of energy between them and thinks, _damn it, this is like one of those horrendous romances Allie pretends I don’t know she reads_.

By the time she’s stopped thinking it, the Guardian has snagged the apple puff that Kima was targeting—and the sweet flaky pastry is pressed against Kima’s surprised mouth.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snatch,” Brotoras says, and this time she’s definitely insinuating something because _hello, she’s rubbing a pastry on Kima’s lips_ , and before Kima can reinstate that vital brain-to-mouth connection that seems to have gone missing she’s got the pastry in her mouth and the tip of her tongue lapping the crumbs off the Guardian’s fingers.

Kima chews.

Kima swallows.

Kima says, “Um,” marvelling at her own eloquence.

Brotoras laughs. “Lady Kima, you’ve gone quite pink.”

“I think you’d better just call me Kima,” says Kima.

“And you’d better just call me Tofor,” says Tofor.

Strangely enough, she now sounds _more_ businesslike than she did before.

“I’d intended to contact you privately to set up another meeting, just the two of us,” Kima says. “I feel like I didn’t give you a very good first impression.”

“On the contrary, you gave me an excellent first impression. If I seemed cold it’s only because I was somewhat disappointed at how very attached you are to Lady Allura.” Tofor puts her hand on the table, palm up, fingers laid flat so the clawed tips pose no threat.

“Arrangements can be made,” Kima says, putting her hand palm down atop Tofor’s and doing what she can to interlace their fingers, which is an interesting task given that Tofor’s hand is twice the size of hers and also boasts one less finger.

“You are very fortunate,” Tofor says gravely, “to have such an understanding partner.”

Kima laughs. “Allie? As soon as I tell her, she’ll be on the Sending scroll to Drake.”

“Some adventuring parties do bond very closely.” Tofor looks wistful, as far as Kima can tell.

“Did you—were you part of a group you were especially close to?”

“Some dragonborn are more naturally accepted into society than others, particularly when it comes to the worship of our Lord of the North Wind.” Tofor’s claws tighten a little around Kima’s fingers, and Kima feels that spark of energy again, sharper this time. “People see pretty shining metallic scales and think _yes, that is a good dragonborn_. They see these blue scales and wonder when I’m going to bite their heads off and go through their pockets.”

Kima, having just sealed a red dragon away forever and ever, says nothing about judging creatures by skin color. She does, however, pick up a small jam tart and hold it up for Tofor to eat. Tofor takes it delicately, the rough tip of her tongue drawing it from Kima’s fingers into her mouth.

“My mother was a good mother,” Tofor says after swallowing. “She might not have been a good _being_ , but she was a good mother. Of course I was mostly the wrong shape, and my siblings nearly ate me more than once, but since my birth itself was a mistake, I was determined not to let my life be one as well.”

A dim memory tugs at Kima’s mind. “Because dragonborn aren’t like half-orcs or half-elves. You’re—”

“We’re meant to be a race unto ourselves. Like you halflings.” A smile flickers across Tofor’s face, there and gone, but definitely a smile. “You’re not actually half of anything. One of those charming quirks of language, like sweetmeats having nothing to do with meat, which I was very disappointed to learn. Sweet _breads_ , on the other hand, were an acceptable substitute.”

Kima tries to steer the conversation away from its linguistic tangent. “And dragonborn aren’t literally born of dragons. You were hatched from dragon eggs, but made by Our Lord.” Kima bites another tart in half, this one passionfruit, and feeds half to her companion. Eating together is a form of intimacy in itself; this goes deeper still. “I gather that wasn’t quite the case with you.”

“You may be familiar with the fact that dragons can shapeshift.” Tofor dabs at her mouth with a cloth napkin. “Often to take lovers of another race.”

“So your mother was a dragon... and your father?”

“Breakfast.”

“Oh.”

“Perhaps ‘lovers’ is too strong a word.”

“Normally this is the point in an intense conversation where I’d lighten the moment by making a joke about eating,” Kima says, “but I’m afraid it would be too close to home.”

She’s certain of Tofor’s smile this time.

“As I said, I survived childhood and my early adolescence despite the predations of my siblings and the natural perils of the desert. My mother shifted form on occasion and taught me what she knew of the common language, although given what she generally used it for most of it wasn’t fit for public utterance. I think we knew from the very beginning that I would have to leave one day.” Tofor looks down at their clasped hands. “She flew me as close to Ank’Harel as she dared, and turned human one last time to bid me farewell. She cried as we said goodbye. She probably ate a merchant on her way back to our lair, but she cried over her child leaving home.”

“Did _you_ eat merchants?” Kima asks, hoping that the stallholder doesn’t hear the question.

“I ate lizards and birds and eggs. A lot of grubs, seeds, roots... why, do you resort to eating merchants when you run out of rations in a strange place?”

“Halflings _are_ known for their hearty appetites.”

“I’m counting on it,” says Tofor.

“Good to know we seem to be on the same page here.”

“Yes. Clearly I am going to feed you pastries until you’re full and sweet, and then roast and consume you.”

“I’ll tell Allura not to wait up, then,” Kima says, feeling a little giddy with the conversation’s ebb and flow from serious to irreverent.

Tofor puts her other hand over Kima’s, encasing her smaller fingers between her solid clawed hands. “Even if the day results only in continuing conversation, it will all be worth it,” she says. Kima recognizes the phrasing—it’s the kind of thing that she herself has said as a diplomatic version of _I’m up for having sex, but if you’re not that’s totally fine, we can hang out and trade war stories instead_.

Besides, that’s the reason she was drawn to Tofor in the first place, of all the council members: the potential stories as a fellow paladin of Bahamut. His followers thrive on good deeds, and no less so on the telling of them.

“Continuing conversation would be a good start,” she says, slipping her other hand in between Tofor’s, so that both her hands are wrapped in scales.

* * *

 

Kima does contact Allura to say she won’t be home, gladly foregoing the fuss and bother of finding someone to cast Sending in favor of tipping a messenger boy a gold piece to run to the tower and return with a reply.

By the time the boy returns the pastries have all been demolished. Tofor is drinking her second cup of thick black coffee. Kima has tried it and immediately shoved a spoonful of sugar in her mouth.

“Each to their own,” Tofor says, pouring her a glass of water as Kima splutters.

“Why would you voluntarily do this to your tastebuds?”

“It tastes better than grubs.” Tofor smiles. “Well, it tastes better than _some_ grubs. I used to like the big white ones, especially roasted in—”

“Do I want to hear the end of that sentence?”

“Hot sand. But thank you for assuming the worst of me.”

Kima groans. “I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted. Here’s your messenger.”

Kima takes the return note from the boy, who dashes off before she can say thank you, probably to spend her gold. It’s brief and to the point; Allie is frequently conservative with words.

_Even if she kicks you out, find something fun to do. Love you. A. PS: D is on his way here; don’t come home! Xoxo_

Kima counts the words in her head: still exactly twenty-five, even in this unrestricted format. That’s her Allie.

* * *

 

The sun is easing toward the horizon by the time Kima and Tofor leave Abadar’s Promenade, but dusk is still some time away. With this in mind they don’t yet turn for Tofor’s home—though their shared lingering touches make it the obvious ultimate destination—but instead continue into the Military District.

Seeing the city guard running drills makes Kima wonder if Tofor walks around armed even in her everyday clothes. She considers asking, but decides she’d rather find out in a more interesting way.

They stop to lean against a low wall and watch the guards. Rhythmic patterns of attacks, swords meeting shields with precision, the kind of thing every guard and soldier and fighter learns before the real world happens to them and they realize that perfect technique means nothing to a raging orc horde.

“I can’t see them doing too well against anything that doesn’t stop to bow first,” Tofor grumps, and Kima remembers that she’s the Master of Defence.

“Have you had much of a hand in their training?”

“That’s really General Yeskas’ department.” Tofor raises a hand and points the General out, just a figure among many others except for the tall blue plume atop his helmet. “He’s in charge of the city guard; the training of the external militia is my area.”

“I’m surprised he’s taken any time away from flirting with any woman who might flirt back to do this.”

“ _Yeskas_? Darling, Rychell Yeskas isn’t even remotely interested in women.”

“Then why was he staring at Allie’s chest yesterday?”

“He likes pretty dresses. He just prefers them on other men, that’s all.”

“How in the nine hells do you know that? Are Allie and I signing up for some sort of bizarre sex club if we join the council?”

Tofor’s facial expression is most definitely a huge smirk. “Not at all. Unless you really _want_ to. No, Rychell and I have some things in common and we can’t always talk about them to other people.” She catches sight of a young man practically windmilling his sword and sighs. “And then we have some disagreements, like the benefits of letting people try out freestyle combat too early. _Yeskas_!”

The blue plume turns toward them and, though Kima can’t really tell if he sees them, the wildly flailing sword is swiftly quelled.

“There’s a big difference between putting the city guard through their paces and training an actual militia.” Tofor crosses her arms; her tone is disgruntled. “You have to learn the rules before you can start breaking them. Of course, there’s also a difference between a militia and a group of heroes.”

It takes Kima a second to catch on that Tofor’s talking about _her_. And—

“Is _that_ why you were so quiet at our first meeting?”

Tofor looks affronted, but Kima’s on a roll. “You weren’t being a snob at all, you were _shy_! Around me and Allie!”

“As would you be, if you were a comparatively young person only recently elected to a position of power brought suddenly face to face with two people who’d done substantially more adventuring than yourself.”

“How old _are_ you?” Kima asks.

“As old as my scales and a little older than my horns.”

“Let me put it this way: are you of the age of consent?”

By way of answer Tofor picks Kima up, stands her on the wall, and bumps her snout against Kima’s nose before nuzzling the side of Kima’s neck.

“The kissing part doesn’t really work,” she murmurs, “but you get the idea.”

Kima does, and presses her lips to the side of Tofor’s mouth; Tofor’s tongue comes out and licks into Kima’s mouth and it’s weird and exciting at the same time.

“That works,” Kima says, catching her breath. Tofor’s tongue is _forked_ and the tips move independently of each other and, just, her imagination has skipped ahead several steps and a couple of layers of clothing. “Oh, it works.”

“I don’t think I want to wander the city any more.” Tofor gives her a storm-blue look and Kima gives her another kiss before jumping down from the wall.

“Race you,” she says simply, and the two of them break into a run, a chase, a hunt where it doesn’t matter who wins because they’ll both be the prize.

* * *

 

Tofor sleeps in a sandpit.

“It does make bringing people home a little awkward,” she admits sheepishly as Kima stares. There are several large boulders arranged around the room, and a handful of small stringy but tough green plants dotted around, but mostly it’s just sand. Sand, and a hot light that shines down from one corner and is too intense to be anything but magical.

“What do you usually do?”

“Go home to their place. Get a tavern room.” Tofor grins. “Pin them to a wall in an alley and bite their heads off as they come.”

“You’re not convincing me.” Kima looks around the room again. “I could sit on that rock...”

“And?”

“Get a sore ass.” Kima tugs at Tofor’s wrist. “Come on. We can go use the couch.”

“We can use the guest bedroom,” Tofor corrects her.

“You never mentioned that!”

“You’re fun to mess with.” Tofor picks Kima up, slinging her over one shoulder, and walks her down the hallway to another room, this one appointed more in the style to which Kima is accustomed, the style that involves a large canopied bed and far less in the way of desert. Although there is a rather pretty sunset painted directly onto the wall that the bed faces that’s surely the vivid shades that could only appear in the desert or in the Fire Plane.

Kima shudders, and Tofor instantly sets her down.

“Are you all right? Is this all right?” As much as she’s loosening up, Tofor still has quick reflexes and notices the look on Kima’s face straight away. “Lady Kima, I will not make you do this thing if it’s not to your tastes.”

“It’s not you at all.” Kima rubs her forehead. “I thought of the Fire Plane when I saw the mural.”

Tofor looks at the mural, looks at the bed, looks at the mural again, and asks, “How do you feel about enclosed spaces?”

Turns out the bed is one of those that comes with curtains.

Turns out Kima is _very_ okay with enclosed spaces when they’re soft and cozy and she’s snuggling with a dragonborn who’s capable of licking her top and bottom lip independently.

“I can’t believe you ever thought that kissing doesn’t work.”

Tofor lifts a lazy claw and drags it down the side of Kima’s tunic, pulling the seam open and slipping her hand inside. “Not everyone adapts as well as you are.”

There’s something odd to her tone, but Kima’s focused on the way Tofor’s palm presses against her back, claws picking at the knot in her breastband, and how Tofor’s fine scales warm to match Kima’s own body heat the more that they touch.

When Kima moves to sit on Tofor’s stomach, growing impatient with Tofor’s slowness with the knot, Tofor seems to barely notice her weight.

“I’m not too heavy?”

“I can barely tell you’re there.”

“Oh, I’m here. I can sit on something else if you need proof.”

Tofor elegantly rips the other side seam of Kima’s tunic open. “No need to rush. We can take our time.”

Much as Kima likes getting to the heart of the matter with minimal tiptoeing around, except in Allie’s case because she’d rather not be subjected to some of the more morally dubious spells Allie knows, being on such unfamiliar territory makes taking it slow not so bad.

She slips her tunic off over her head and her breastband falls free; maybe Tofor wasn’t taking so long as Kima thought she was. She tosses tunic and band aside and leans down to kiss Tofor again. The feeling of her breasts brushing against Tofor’s chest reminds her that Tofor is still wearing more than she is.

“Can this come off?” she asks, plucking at the front of Tofor’s dress.

Tofor looks uncomfortable. “Not just yet.”

Kima’s mouth begins to shape the words _why not_ and then stops mid-breath. Tofor isn’t the only body-shy woman with whom she’s lain, and she has a strategy for moments like this.

“I understand.” She lifts her hands to cup her breasts, almost idly rolling her thumbs over her nipples. “You want to see exactly what you can have before you make a full commitment.”

Tofor laugh-gasps. “Oh, my dear, if that were all I can assure you I’d be committed to this from your mouth alone.” And before Kima can ask what she means Tofor sets out to prove it, pulling Kima down to her for another of those awkward yet so appealing kisses. Kima works willingly around the complication of Tofor’s snout and, for such dangerous appendages, Tofor’s claws are surprisingly gentle as they hold her close.

It’s interesting, feeling Tofor’s body under hers. Some places are soft, though even through the rough-spun cloth of Tofor’s dress Kima can tell most of those places have scales of one size or another, from the tiny ones on the backs of her hands to the larger ones that encircle her throat almost like a collar. Other places, like Tofor’s stomach, feel as though they’re protected by a more solid layer of some description. It doesn’t seem as rigid as the hard-plated belly of an actual dragon, but not as flexible as, say, hide. Bone? Carapace? Chitin?

“ _Kima_.” Tofor sounds exasperated. “Where has your mind gone?”

“I’m trying to work out what your stomach’s made of.”

Tofor has the most fascinating giggle. “Semi-digested merchant.”

Kima taps her knuckles against the region in question. “ _Outside_.”

“Oh. Chitin.”

“I knew it!” Kima crows.

“I’m so delighted that basic dragonborn anatomy is familiar to you.”

Kima gives her a cheeky grin. “Not all of it.”

Again Tofor seems a little uncomfortable, choosing not to respond to Kima’s jest but rather to work Kima’s belt free of its loops, not being lax with her tongue while doing so.

“I thought—oh, that’s nice—you wanted to take your time.”

“One has to be able to adapt one’s priorities at a moment’s notice on the battlefield.”

“We’re on a _bed_.”

Tofor pulls Kima’s belt free and tosses it aside before cupping Kima’s breasts delicately and pressing them together, and is her tongue forked enough to touch both nipples at once? Kima hopes so.

It is.

She’s whimpering and writhing unashamedly against Tofor’s thigh within seconds and it’s getting hard to think. Even more so when Tofor shifts position so that her thigh is directly between Kima’s and—ah, _there_ , that’s where she needs the pressure, although it’s not quite right and Kima lets out a discontent noise.

“I think that taking it slow isn’t working,” Tofor says, and she tumbles Kima onto her back, and before Kima knows it Tofor has yanked her trousers off and has her head between Kima’s thighs.

Her tongue is more dextrous than Kima could ever have hoped for.

Kima comes within the first half-dozen licks with a shriek, her ass coming up off the bed. Tofor takes her faceful of halfling with equanimity, even sliding one hand under Kima’s ass to hold her closer, continuing to lick her through her first climax and straight on into a second, at which point Kima would shriek again except that she can’t breathe straight.

She hopes Tofor’s neighbors don’t mind the screaming.

Tofor lifts her head the second that Kima manages to gasp, “Enough!”

“Do you just need a moment, or are we finished for the day?”

“Ngh. Moment.” Kima doesn’t like comparing and contrasting her sexual partners, but having one who can lick along both sides of her clit at the same time has shot Tofor straight into her top three.

Tofor picks Kima up and sets her down where she can recline against the pillows. Kima doesn’t usually take too well to being manhandled even in sexual situations, but Tofor doesn’t seem to be fetishizing her small size, merely making her more comfortable.

“That’s two,” Tofor says. “How many can you ordinarily manage?”

“I’ve never really counted.”

“Everyone’s counted.”

“Eight would be the most. Three would be the average.”

“I almost feel bad for wasting two of them so quickly.”

Kima, who is still trying to reacquaint her brain with the concept of thinking, just rolls her eyes. Tofor stretches out beside her and puts a hand on Kima’s stomach, rubbing her palm in circles. It feels like the smallest soft scales of a tiny snake.

“Are the scales everywhere?”

“There are more scales than not-scales. I throw to my mother’s side.”

“Can I see?”

Tofor guides Kima’s hand to the topmost of the buttons that run down the bodice of the dress. “One at a time. I’ll tell you if you need to stop.”

“How do you manage these with claws?” Kima slips the first large button free of its hole, then the second, spreading the cloth open.

“With practice.”

Kima leans in to kiss Tofor’s exposed clavicle. The skin here is also covered with fine scales and on a whim she runs her tongue over them, feeling the way that they’re smooth in one direction but rougher in the other. Tofor lets out a hum of pleasure and Kima does it again.

“Maybe I should try licking the next dragon instead of fighting it.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Kima undoes the third button and puts both hands on Tofor’s chest, thumb to thumb, spreading her fingers wide to see whether she can span the blueness with her hands. Not quite, but Tofor hums with pleasure once more.

“You’re nice and warm.”

“I’m sorry we couldn’t do this in an environment more suited to your needs.”

Tofor flicks the fourth button open herself. “I’m not.”

Four buttons down and the dress is spread open to the point where, if dragonborn had navels, Kima would be able to see Tofor’s. She can’t. What she can see is slightly overlapping plates of chitin. She touches them, running her fingertips over the edges, and Tofor does a half-situp to show her how they can overlap further, keeping her from having to stay rigidly unbent.

“If you do a backbend, do you look like a roly-poly bug?”

Tofor lets Kima get to the waistline of the dress, where the buttons stop anyway and the skirt is all of one piece, and then stops her. Kima’s about to ask her why, bites her tongue, and moves her hands to Tofor’s shoulders instead. “May I push the sleeves down?”

“Yes.” Tofor obligingly wriggles out of the top half of the dress, fussily tucking it around her waist, folding it over her front.

“Tofor, I doubt whatever you have under there is going to jump up and bite me.”

Tofor’s eyes flash an angry storm for a second, and Kima would swear she can smell ozone. “Don’t push me!”

Kima backs off and offers a conciliatory gesture: running her hands over Tofor’s muscular upper arms, squeezing them hard. “Nice. I bet you can crack walnuts in the crook of your elbow.”

“Walnuts. Skulls. Whatever’s frustratingly hard to open.”

“Skulls aren’t that hard to open.”

“Well, aren’t you a violent little thing.”

“Spreading the holy word of the Platinum Dragon involves more skull-smacking than I think anyone outside the order would understand.” The memory of what their Lord has asked her to do washes over her and Kima presses her face against Tofor’s shoulder for a moment. Tofor’s scales are cool, but her flesh underneath is warm.

“Lady Kima. Do you need to talk about where your journey is to take you?”

“Later. Talk later.” Kima kisses the corner of Tofor’s mouth, then the tip of her snout. “May I take your dress off now, or would you rather we do something else?”

“Not just yet. Please?” Tofor licks Kima’s lower lip. “I don’t want to ruin this.”

“I honestly don’t know what you mean by ruining this, Tofor. Are you afraid I don’t know enough about dragonborn anatomy to please you? I’m a good learner.”

“I heard you keep getting into strife with Highbearer Vord. That doesn’t speak to patience in learning.”

Kima huffs. “That’s his fault, not mine.” She puts her hands back on Tofor’s chest, palms flat, thumbs touching, fingers spread. “So tell me what feels good.”

“ _That_ is nice, for one thing. I don’t feel like you’re trying to grope me and being disappointed that I don’t have breasts.”

“Why would anyone with—with reptilian anatomy have breasts?”

“Am I a roly-poly or a reptile?”

“You’re a dragonborn.”

Tofor looks rueful. “I’m not even very good at that.”

Kima begins circling her palms on Tofor’s chest. “You’re a Tofor, then. An attractive blue somewhat-dragonborn woman with no breasts who likes being stroked.” She licks the corner of Tofor’s mouth, where she’s most sensitive. “Is the no-tail thing a dragonborn thing as well? I thought I’d seen dragonborn with tails.”

“I had one,” Tofor says curtly. “Now I don’t.”

“Was it a combat wound?”

“It was not.” Kima wants to ask for more information, but Tofor pre-emptively shushes her. “Between Marquet and here I traveled to Draconia. They have some interesting thoughts about hierarchies and class there.” She rolls over, putting her back to Kima, and pulls her dress up so that Kima can see the rough, round, puckered scar at the small of her back. “This was no combat wound, nor was it an accident.”

“Oh, _Bahamut_. Do you know their names? Please tell me you know their names. I’m going to kill them.” Kima hugs Tofor fiercely from behind, arm around her waist, face pressed in between Tofor’s shoulderblades. “How anybody can _mutilate_ anyone else in the name of _class_ —”

“There are reasons that it could have been much worse.” Tofor’s voice is sharp. “I had traveled there armed and armored, rather than as you see me now. They stripped me of my gear so they could take my tail, but they didn’t take—they didn’t take—” She gives up on words and stands up abruptly, back still to Kima, and sheds her dress entirely.

Then she turns around.

“Oh,” Kima says. “That—is that, uh, standard dragonborn equipment?” She’s staring at what’s at the juncture of Tofor’s thighs: what looks like not one cock but two, half-hard, another of the most humanoid parts of her save for the configuration and—

“It’s _male_ standard dragonborn equipment.”

“Oh,” Kima says again. “But you’re a woman.”

“I was my mother’s daughter, because she understood that many things can go awry with the mixing of human and dragon blood. When I left home and went to Ank’Harel, I was a woman to J’Mon Sa Ord, and if anyone in this world has ever understood that more than they did then I have yet to meet them. But when I went to Draconia, if I had spoken to them of being a woman, I would have lost this as well.” Tofor makes a general gesture, looking at Kima rather than down at herself. “Sometimes I wish I had. This body does not match my mind.”

There’s only one real response that Kima can make, which is just to repeat, “But you’re a woman.”

“You’re not just saying that to appease my troubled mind?” It seems like something that Tofor might be saying sarcastically, especially given that dragonborn faces are so very different in terms of expressions. But her tone suggests otherwise, and besides, Kima would like to think that over the last hours she has grown at least a little accustomed to how to read Tofor’s body language.

“Bahamut’s _sake_ , Tofor, come over here and tell me which bits you’re all right with having touched and how.”

A blind person could read Tofor’s body language then; she doesn’t quite throw herself back onto the bed, but it’s a close thing.

“I believe I was up to here.” Kima sits on Tofor’s stomach, prudently avoiding the area between her thighs for the time being, and puts her hands back on Tofor’s chest, rubbing wide slow circles. “If I did this to a cat I would’ve lost a hand by now.”

“I’m glad I’m not a cat as well as a roly-poly bug and a reptile; I’ve gone through quite enough identity crises in my life without adding any more.”

Kima runs her fingers lightly down Tofor’s sides, making her wriggle. “I’m glad you’re you.”

“You really don’t have a problem with—”

“If you don’t think I’d speak my mind if I had a problem with any of this, then we haven’t known each other nearly as many nearly one whole days as I thought we had.” Kima backs up a little so she can touch Tofor’s stomach as well; she can feel the warmth radiating from just behind her backside. “Are you _disappointed_ that I didn’t run screaming?”

Tofor sits up, sending Kima sliding back, and kisses Kima sternly—that’s the only way to describe it, Kima thinks as Tofor’s tongue pushes between her lips, twin tips seeming to almost smack at Kima’s own tongue. Her arms go around Kima’s waist, claws digging lightly but meaningfully into Kima’s bare skin.

“I am _trying_ to open up to you, Lady Kima.”

“I could open up to you instead.” Kima wriggles on what’s now Tofor’s lap and has the pleasure of seeing Tofor’s eyes close and mouth open at the contact.

“I don’t usually like—being in someone like that.”

Kima pulls Tofor’s head down, resting her forehead against Tofor’s, feeling the rounded nubs of the domed scales that pass for Tofor’s eyebrows. “And I don’t usually like having someone in me like that. So let’s stick with what we _do_ like. Tell me something you want me to do to you.”

“Your hand would be nice,” Tofor says, voice low.

Rather than fucking around with Tofor’s mind any more, Kima just reaches down between them to take Tofor in hand. She’s not frequently acquainted with cocks, let alone two on one person, so she starts out just exploring to see what makes Tofor rise against her and what makes her flinch away.

“Let me go so I can see.”

Tofor releases her and lies back; Kima shifts to sit beside her. That’s better; she can actually see how Tofor’s body is reacting, rather than making assumptions.

“Are they two separate parts, or one part that... diverges?”

“They’re a pair.” Tofor folds her arms behind her head. “They—oh, sweet north wind—they’re like that so— _fuck_ , Kima!”

Kima doesn’t know whether Tofor was going to actually finish that sentence, because apparently it’s intensely distracting for her to have one hand around each of Tofor’s two—she supposes she’ll carry on thinking of them as cocks unless Tofor tells her otherwise.

“Can you come independently out of each?”

“Don’t know. Never tried. Can’t really do it myself.” Tofor’s claws are digging into the pillows as she arches her back; the deep rents torn into the pillowcase are a marvelous example of why self-pleasure might not be the easiest thing for her. “Your hands—better size—”

“Why don’t we find out,” Kima remarks as though suggesting the next step in a scientific study, squeezing the base of Tofor’s upper cock tightly with her fingers while continuing to play with Tofor’s lower cock with the other hand. She’s mostly rolling her thumb over the head, sweeping up the pearly fluid gathering there and using it to ease her strokes. She pops her thumb in her mouth for a moment, sucking it clean with a lavishly wet noise, and Tofor moans wordlessly.

“You taste like the air before a thunderstorm.”

“Uh-huh,” is all Tofor manages by way of response.

Kima resumes stroking her and it’s only another few seconds before Tofor’s hips lift and her backside comes clean off the bed for a moment before thumping back down as her lower cock pulses, shooting fluid over Kima’s hand and Tofor’s upper cock.

_How convenient_ , Kima thinks, releasing her tight grip on the base of Tofor’s upper cock and switching hands. She’s not used to doing this at all, let alone with her non-dominant hand.

Tofor’s not yet come down from her first climax when Kima gets her to come again, and the intensity of the experience shows itself in the tautness of the dragonborn’s body, the gasping expression on her face as her eyes open wide and her mouth drops open, emitting a keening cry.

With other women Kima’s been known to make wisecracks at this point or shortly thereafter. With Tofor, she can’t. The moment just doesn’t lend itself to any sort of witticism. She’s too overwhelmed with _I just got a dragonborn off_ and _wow, her eyes are really dark_ and _I have a cock in my hand, this is clearly not a normal Yulisen night_.

Well, all right, maybe it does. But she’s not going to repeat any of her thoughts aloud.

There’s a cloth beside her that she vaguely remembers seeing neatly folded over the pillows when they first came in. Kima snags it, holds it up, and waits for Tofor’s dazed nod before using it to clean herself and Tofor up. The fluid is tacky as it dries and doesn’t feel particularly pleasant. Kima tries not to let her feelings show on her face, but Tofor just gives her a wry smile.

“Don’t worry. I’m not a fan of the stuff either.”

“I’m sorry,” Kima says, not entirely certain whether she means for looking disgusted or for Tofor’s predicament. She herself has had times when she didn’t like some part or other of her body, mostly for the usual stupid reasons: not enough muscle in her legs when trying to outrun a mountain giant (which was idiotic in the first place), too many scars to be classified as pretty (she doesn’t care. She _doesn’t_ ); and the ultimately indignity of being too short to see over things, leading to even Drake teasing her about her height.

None of that is the same as this.

“Lady Kima, you have nothing to apologize for. This is how I was born, and I deal with it.”

“Have you ever considered—is there a magical option?”

Tofor rolls onto her side and stretches her arm out, inviting Kima into her embrace. “That was one of the first questions that J’mon Sa Ord asked me when I first visited Ank’Harel. Did I want to magically transform my body to match my mind?”

“Why did you say no?”

The obstinate look on Tofor’s face is unmistakable. “Because I am a woman regardless of my body parts, and because not all individuals have the opportunity to make such a choice.”

“How very noble of you.” Kima can’t keep the sarcasm from her voice.

“That’s what J’mon said. They also said I was stubborn and proud, and I said, well, will I still be _me_ if I have a cloaca instead of a hemipenis?”

Kima does not say “a _what_?” because she’s capable of making inferences from context.

“They said the only way to find out was to try. And I didn’t want to try.” Tofor sighs and presses the tip of her snout to Kima’s forehead. “I hated having the right mind and the wrong body. I still do. But if my body had changed, who’s to say that my mind wouldn’t have changed as well?”

Her verbalized frustration is echoed in the tension of her body and, as Kima reaches to stroke her back or shoulder or wherever she can reach that could be construed as soothing, a spark snaps from the tip of one of her claws, zapping the back of Kima’s neck and literally making the hairs there stand up.

“Ow!”

“Sorry!”

“No, it’s all right. Is that a stress thing? Or a dragonborn thing?”

“You know how all chromatic dragons have an affinity for one of the elements?” Tofor asks.

Kima mostly knows that the red ones have an affinity for breathing huge fuck-off gouts of flame, but she nods and tries to look intelligent anyway.

“Blue dragons have an affinity for lightning.” Tofor brings her hand between them and touches the tip of the claw to Kima’s nipple.

“Do it, go on,” Kima says eagerly.

It feels like being solidly flicked there, a sharp, hard sensation. The tingling hits a second later, centered on her nipple but moving outward like a pebble dropped in a pond until Kima’s whole breast goes goosebumpy.

“ _Oh_!”

“Good?”

Kima shamelessly spreads her thighs. “Do my clit!”

“Are you _sure_?” Tofor looks dubious. “I’m worried about your—wet skin can conduct—”

“Please? Pretty please?” Kima is aware that she sounds like a small child begging for a sweet.

Tofor does it, and _ouch_ it hurts but the buzzing aftershock shakes Kima to the core and she shudders with it, gasping for air, and when Tofor does it again Kima bucks against her claw, sending it sliding along her slick heat, prolonging the sensation.

“I guess I shouldn’t have been worried,” Tofor says to nobody in particular as Kima flops onto her back and starts giggling.

* * *

 

They make love long into the night, stopping for food when hunger distracts them from one another.

Tofor doesn’t quite get around to the same nonchalant nudity that Kima’s so good at, but she does at least act less like she thinks Kima’s going to change her mind and run screaming.

“Are you certain my body’s not off-putting?” Tofor asks at one point.

“There’s so much I could say to that.” Kima’s curled up on Tofor, using her as a mattress; Tofor has her arms around Kima like a warming pan. “Firstly, I knew fuck-all about dragonborn anatomy until today. If you hadn’t told me, I’d be none the wiser.”

“Truly?”

“Truly. Secondly, I like women who’re at least mostly confident about their bodies. I’ve seen a lot of body types. Allie and I are mostly exclusive, but only mostly, and I’ve seen—oh, piercings, big clits, thick labia, scars, blood—do dragonborn menstruate?”

Tofor shakes her head.

“Oh, wow, you really dodged a bullet there. What else? I forget, but that’s just the downstairs stuff. Point is, women come in all shapes and sizes anyway. Plus there _was_ one time when Allie asked me to join her and Drake.”

“He’s the dwarven man, isn’t he?” Interest sparks in Tofor’s eyes. “What was that like?”

“Beardy. I kissed him for a bit then drank a bunch of his ale and watched him and Allie.” Kima shivers pleasantly at the memory. “He wasn’t really for me, but gods, watching someone you love getting so—” Her voice deserts her and she settles for kissing Tofor again, this time sucking lightly first at one tongue-tip, then the other.

“Is sharing something you often do?” Tofor sounds hopeful. Kima can guess why.

“Weeee-llll...” She sits up, shuffles down Tofor’s body to straddle one of her thighs, and wraps one hand around each of Tofor’s twinned cocks. “Only when we find someone who really appeals to us both.” She licks at the head of one cock, then the other, making Tofor squirm. “Drake wasn’t really my style, but I think Allie wanted to see me... you know.”

Tofor’s face shutters off once more. “I’m still not sure I could do that.”

Kima licks her again. “I’m not saying you’d have to... but I think she’d be interested in your lightning tricks. She’d probably want enough details to see if she can do the same thing on me with a spell.”

The next expression to cross Tofor’s face is a delightful hint of jealousy. “That’s _my_ trick.”

“Oh, it wouldn’t come without compensation.” Kima starts moving both hands at once, slightly out of sync with one another. “Like two mouths on you... here and here.” She punctuates each _here_ with a long lick. “With four hands we could _probably_ figure out most of your weak spots.”

“Kima—”

“Hush. Let me—”

Her cheeks stretch and her jaw clicks and Kima’s not sure how long she can manage, but Tofor lets out a hoarse yell and suddenly Kima’s mouth is full of the tang of a summer storm, like salty petrichor.

She counts off exactly five seconds and then does it all over again, until Tofor’s keening under her and Kima thinks, _Huh. Didn’t really expect to_ like _this part so much_.

* * *

 

Kima still can’t go home to Allie tonight, not because she has any problem being at their place while Drake’s there, but because she wants to give them the privacy. However, Tofor gets up when they’re both worn out.

“I’m sorry. I have to go to my own room to sleep.” She licks Kima’s cheek goodnight. “Berry pancakes for breakfast?”

“Sounds lovely,” Kima says, licking Tofor’s lower lip in return.

She lasts half an hour alone in the big bed, mostly asleep but not quite there, before wrapping a blanket around herself and padding down the hall to Tofor’s room. Tofor is curled up on her side, claw marks in the sand suggesting she’s been tossing and turning, and when Kima enters the room she rolls onto her back and spreads her arms.

Kima settles on Tofor’s chest, spreads the blanket over them both, and falls asleep.


End file.
